


Supersaturate

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:49:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6896413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’ve just been talking; the conversation isn’t finished and yet Tatsuya can’t find the words to continue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supersaturate

It's not as if Tatsuya’s never been attracted to anyone before; it’s not as if he’s never been attracted to someone who doesn’t reciprocate. As pretty as he knows he is, it’s not as if he has universal appeal and he knows how to deal with it before he gets bogged down with that kind of feeling (well, most of the time). And that’s how it starts with Aomine Daiki, unreciprocated attraction, and Tatsuya is quite sure that’s how it’s going to end, fleeting and short like a wave that doesn’t break.

But it doesn’t end. Tatsuya’s attentions don’t move, and worst of all they don’t really have room to move. It seems like at least a few times a week when he’s hanging out with Taiga (or, rarely, Atsushi) that Aomine shows up and is his stupid, unintentionally-attractive self and is very clearly not into Tatsuya and it’s getting to the point where it’s starting to hurt. Tatsuya scolds himself for being stupid but then he goes right back out to get more of it, masochist that he knows all too well he is.

The worst part (or maybe the best) is how oblivious Aomine seems to all of it. Every time Tatsuya looks too long and manages to catch his eye he gives a half-smile that invites nothing and promises even less than that. It’s never any different; his eyes are never wider and his mouth never twists into a full-out grin and he never looks away too quickly, even after Tatsuya’s been leaning close to him (enough to feel his body heat stronger than the searing sun) and trying a sip of whatever weird sugary coffee drink he’s gotten after playing basketball all day.

And basketball, that’s what it is about Aomine—the swish of the ball off his hands through the net at an impossible angle with his feet all wrong in the air and his jump sloppy and sideways, the way he bounces it off the pavement at the worst inclinations and catches it in his hands again, the way he sees the ball without even looking and steals it—that Tatsuya finds most attractive. On one level, of course it is, but on another shouldn’t he be jealous? He is, but not in a tangible way, not in a way he can legitimize the comparison. Aomine plays so differently than he does, and there’s no other way Tatsuya’s seen him—he doesn’t know the way Aomine had looked the first time he’d picked up a ball and tried to bounce it against the pavement. He doesn’t know where Aomine started, how long it took him to get to where he is, any of that, and he’s glad of it.

And he can say all that and still have to resist the urge to lean in whenever Aomine says his name in that rough way he does, tossing a gesture out with it, a flicked hand or raised shoulder or half-smile that Tatsuya wants to read as him flirting back but can’t, won’t fool himself. Because if Aomine’s really interested in flirting back, if Aomine wants him, he’ll give a clearer indicator than that, one that doesn’t need any wishful thinking to nudge it along like believing you’ve found the end of the rainbow.

But it’s not just basketball, it’s the easy way they fall into conversation, the way Tatsuya wants to let him into conversation in spaces where he’d usually be trying to keep other people out; it’s the way he’s on eye level with the base of Aomine’s neck and the way his throat moves when he speaks (and how easy it is to imagine that throat against his hands, lips) and the way he speaks, the ease and confidence and humor seeping in like rainwater saturating the earth.

At least they’re never alone; at least the presence of others—Taiga, Atsushi, mutual acquaintances—keeps Tatsuya from doing anything too stupid. It’s a thought that perhaps he shouldn’t think too often, a thought he resolves to not think any longer the day before it becomes irrelevant when Atsushi’s whims lead him off abruptly and they’re left with just each other.

Tatsuya’s mouth is dry; he runs his tongue over the rim of the inside of his teeth. Aomine palms the basketball he’s been carrying, makes as if to spin it on his finger but then doesn’t. They’d played earlier, a bit; Tatsuya and Atsushi versus Aomine until Atsushi had begged off (supposedly due to boredom) and then it had gone to one-on-one and Tatsuya had managed a lucky, glancing blocked shot, tipping the ball away from Aomine’s raised hand (of course, Aomine had recovered the ball before Tatsuya could get to it) and had been rewarded with a shouted compliment that he wants to physically kick himself for savoring even now.

Aomine’s thigh is maybe two inches from his, all firm toned muscle and sweat visible from where his slightly-too-small shorts are riding up, half-pushed by the slats of the park bench. His eyes are closed; his torso is draped across the back of the bench like a curtain stuck to the window screen on a breezy day. They’ve just been talking; the conversation isn’t finished (even before Atsushi had left he’d been very busy with something on his phone) and yet Tatsuya can’t find the words to continue.

And then Aomine is kissing him and he’s actually not that good, too much tongue and front teeth scraping across Tatsuya’s and his hand squeezing Tatsuya’s shoulder a little too hard but Aomine’s kissing him and Tatsuya sure as hell doesn’t want to push him away.

“Shit,” says Aomine when he pulls away. “I, uh.”

“Are you going to apologize?” says Tatsuya.

“Do you want me to?” says Aomine.

His hand is still holding Tatsuya’s shoulder, though it’s no longer gripping it like it’s a soda can he’s trying to squash before he throws it in the recycling. Of course Tatsuya doesn’t want him to (and he didn’t think Aomine would be particularly inclined to, but the look on his face makes him second guess himself).

“No,” says Tatsuya.

“Good,” says Aomine.

He half-grins; he’s bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet and his thumb is brushing at the edge of Tatsuya’s shirt, barely not touching his skin. And Tatsuya wants to kiss him again (at the very least, Aomine needs the practice) so he does.


End file.
